Ghosts in Red
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: A collection of Natlock and Natlock-related drabbles, oneshots and missing scenes in no particular sequence. Non-compliant with AoU.
1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:** Short Victorian AU inspired by _The Abominable Bride_.

* * *

 **Ghosts**

Natasha turned away from the the gentle pattering of London rain when the soft rustle of Sherlock's dressing gown reached her ears. There'd been nothing but silence bouncing off the walls of 221B since he'd taken to his chair, hands as if in prayer pressed to his mouth.

She checked the clock. Well over two hours had gone by since then. She'd caught him in the middle of a case when she'd arrived the day before, planning to stay for a fortnight. He assured her he'd be done in a couple of days. An unspoken promise of uninterrupted time together.

Sherlock flicked his eyes her way when she eyed the gun in his hand, leveling it at the papered wall. Natasha arched a brow. "Stealing my guns now, are you?"

"I'm sure you can afford to lose one," he said smoothly. "You have more than you need for a two week visit. I verified."

"You went through my things too?" Sherlock fired and Natasha darted her eyes towards the wall. "You do like to live dangerously."

"I share a bed with you don't I?" Sherlock winked and brought the gun closer for inspection. "This isn't a standard model. It's custom made. Where did you get it?"

"Courtesy of my new employer." Natasha rose from her perch and wandered over to wrap her arms around his waist beneath his dressing gown. He lowered the gun to his side, using his free arm around to pull her closer. Her lips curved in a smile. "Keep it. I've got a spare."

"In exchange for what? I know you." Sherlock loosened his hold to bury a hand in her hair, twirling the blonde strands between his fingers. His eyes never left her face, and she knew he remembered a darker time when her hair was a different color. A darker time for both. _We all have a past._

She closed her eyes. "Solving the case in half the time?"

His lips lifted at the corners and he leaned in to brush them against hers.

"And what will we do for the remainder of your visit?"

"I've got a few ideas," she whispered.

Sherlock tipped her head back for a kiss, voice a low rumble. "You've got yourself a deal."


	2. Invitation

**Invitation**

"Transferring now." Natasha eyed the screen of her computer while she sipped her coffee. "What am I looking at here?"

"H.O.U.N.D." Sherlock's voice came through the computer's speakers. "I need everything you can find on the project as soon as possible."

Natasha set her mug down and spoke while she typed. "Is this that glowing bunny case you swore you wouldn't take? I thought that one didn't rate above a three."

"It does now," he snapped. "Have you found anything? It's time sensitive."

"Keep snapping at me like that and you'll find something all right," she quipped. "Here's something. Old S.H.I.E.L.D. intel. Hold for transfer."

"You're seven hours away, assuming you take the Quinjet now. I'll risk it." He sounded distracted. "Military project?"

"Apparently. How did you get your hands on this?"

"I have a very specific skill set," he deadpanned.

"And Mycroft's security clearance?"

"That too." He sounded distracted again. "Hold on."

Natasha folded her arms atop the table and stared at her computer screen for all of two seconds. "You don't think I'd take the Quinjet?"

"Not right now."

Her lips twitched at the corners. "I think you're underestimating my wrath."

"So prove me wrong. Have to go now." There was a bit of shuffling on the other end of the line, like he'd taken his phone off speaker and jammed it between his ear and shoulder. "I should be done by tonight."

Natasha stole a peek at her watch. If she had Stark's people file a flight plan now, she'd make it over just after midnight. "Is that an invitation?"

He switched to Russian. " _Maybe. A proper 'thank you' for your assistance is in order, don't you think?_ "

Natasha smiled. " _Give me a few hours._ "


	3. First Comes Love

**First Comes Love**

"You're awake."

Sherlock felt Natasha's small body shift towards him on the bed and her full lips brush against his ear. He was awake. Barely. He breathed in and felt her fingers curl into the sleeve of his shirt.

"What happened?" He scrubbed a hand over his face. "What time is it? Where's John?"

"Went home about an hour ago." Her breath was warm on his skin. "He said you OD'd on the plane. Mary wanted to take you to the hospital, but you insisted you wanted to come here first. You collapsed on the stairs."

Sherlock dropped his hand on his chest and opened his eyes. His bedside lamp lit up the ceiling. "You're angry with me."

"A little." Natasha tugged on his sleeve again and lifted her head, hinting she wanted to use his arm for a pillow. Sherlock wasn't even a little bit high anymore. He was hung-over. Slow.

He stole a peek at her and gathered her close to his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin. "It was a slip," he spoke against her hair.

"It's always a slip." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "How many have there been so far? How many does John know about?"

Sherlock hesitated. "One or two."

"You need to stop." Natasha lifted her head and crawled up to meet his eyes, red hair falling over her shoulder in shiny waves. He breathed in the familiar scent of her shampoo. Red roses. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Please," she pleaded. "Stop."

"I've got it under control," he insisted stubbornly. "I slipped. _This_ time. It won't happen again. I've figured out the proper dosage, it's—"

Natasha pulled away and swung her bare legs off the side of the bed before he had a chance to finish. Sherlock lifted himself up on an elbow to follow her with his eyes. She'd changed into pajama shorts and a cozy sweater while he'd been passed out. The sweater was too big on her. She tucked her hands inside the sleeves so that only her fingertips showed and tiptoed her way across the cold floor of his bedroom. Her bag swung idly from a hook behind his door and she retrieved a paper from inside.

Sherlock sat up further to take it from her hand. Snatch it, really. He was already feeling a little defensive. Anxious. He wanted another fix. Natasha slid back into bed with him and burrowed beneath the covers. He shifted away to give her room but he was still close enough to feel her shiver.

He scanned the paper in his hand. "Impossible."

"I thought so too." Natasha sounded almost subdued. "So I had him run the test again. And again. And _again_. Those results are accurate."

Sherlock scanned the paper a second time. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Mycroft sent him to a rehab facility once. He escaped within the hour. This wasn't a printout for a rehab facility. This was a pregnancy test—or the _results_ of a pregnancy test.

"But it's impossible," he pressed. "You said—"

"And what I said was true. I was sterilized." Her voice broke on the last syllable and he turned towards her on the bed. She wasn't crying yet but she looked alarmingly close to tears. Her nose was red and her eyes were just a little shinier than they should've been. Red rimmed. She fiddled with the sleeves of her sweater without meeting his eyes. "I have a theory," she offered shakily.

"Don't you always? It's why I love you." He set the results aside and lowered himself beside her, propped up on an elbow. Natasha looked up at him and he tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling faintly. "You thought I'd stop loving you because you're pregnant? Give me at least a _little_ credit. I'd like to think I'm not that much of an arse."

Natasha choked on a laugh and nodded once. "I got a text about what happened with Magnussen before I had a chance to investigate," she continued. "I still don't know how it happened."

"We'll investigate together," Sherlock said. "I _am_ a consulting detective, after all."

Natasha sniffled and wiped away a few stray tears with the sleeve of her sweater. "The Case of the Pregnant Spy?"

"That's horrible. Leave the titles to John." Sherlock's smile grew just a little.

"You need to stop," she said again. "Using, I mean. You need to stop."

"I need to stop." Sherlock's expression turned solemn. "We're going to be rubbish parents."

"Probably," Natasha agreed. "But we're going to try, and I'm pretty sure that's all anyone can do. Babies don't come with instruction manuals."

"It'd be easier if they did." He laid back down on the bed beside her and fixed clear blue eyes on the ceiling.

"Are you in shock?"

"Probably."

"Because I expected more of a freak-out."

Sherlock turned his head on the pillow and found Natasha's pale green eyes wide, and staring right back. He should've been freaking out, but he wasn't. He was too tired. "It's been a long day," he said softly.

Natasha moved closer and he lifted his arm so that she could tuck herself underneath. Her eyes were still on his face. "Tell me everything's going to be okay."

"It's going to be okay," he repeated without stopping to consider whether or not the statement was truthful. " _We_ are going to be okay."

"You have to stop," Natasha said again, and her eyes were closed this time.

Sherlock pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I have to stop."


	4. Stay With Me

**Stay With Me**

The lens was foggy from the spray of beach water and salty breeze, but the picture was still one of Natasha's favorites. John must've taken it. She'd been too distracted with Sherlock's lips on hers to pay much attention.

But she remembered the seconds leading up to that kiss. The way the sun caught the blue in Sherlock's eyes. His strong arms pulling her against his chest. The warmth of him against her back.

"Stay with me," she'd requested in a moment of quiet vulnerability.

He'd bowed his head and replied against her lips with, "Always," only to catch her in a heated kiss a moment later.


	5. Beautiful Anatomy

**Beautiful Anatomy**

Sometimes she danced for him.

She'd roll the rugs and close the doors make a space for herself in his cluttered living room. He would tune his violin and she would stretch and bend and smile when she caught him staring.

She was all elegant lines and soft curves and hollow spaces humming with music. She was gentle hands and hard muscle and sweeps of sentiment without words.

"Play something for me," she'd ask him in that heavy rasp he loved so much.

Sherlock would lift his bow and she would twist her hair behind her head, feet rolling on hardwood floors until she stood on pointe.

Her chest would rise.

Her chest would fall.

Green eyes like silver leaves would close and she'd turn into angles and twirls and shapes and thrumming power breathing life into every note.

Sherlock knew the science behind every ripple of muscle beneath her skin. He knew every angle in her body to the last degree and every measure of every inch, from lips to hips to arching feet.

Sherlock knew the anatomy of this woman who would tell him with movements that she loved him and accepted him and welcomed his eyes on her in all their incisive curiosity.

Sometimes Natasha would dance for him.

Sometimes Sherlock would fall and fall and fall in love.


	6. Little Truths

**Little Truths**

Natasha's phone chimed on her lap for the third time in one hour.

Steve wasn't brave enough to reach over and check the screen. She'd been out cold since they'd left the burning remains of Camp Lehigh and the hidden S.H.I.E.L.D. bunker behind. Startling her awake would be a good way to get killed.

At least she was still alive.

Fifteen minutes later, Natasha's phone chimed again and she breathed in, lashes fluttering against the rays of sunlight bouncing off the hood of their stolen car. She snatched her phone from her thigh.

"Are you awake?" Steve prompted quietly.

"Yeah," she breathed. "Just need a minute."

Steve watched her check her phone. Her fingers flew over the screen typing a reply. He noticed she only typed one and wondered if it'd been the same person sending her all those texts. There'd been no calls.

He thought he saw her smile.

"Okay, go," she spoke in a stronger voice when she finished, easing her feet up on the dashboard. "Where are we? Where are we going? What's the game plan?"

"We're going to Sam's."

"Sam Wilson," she repeated. "We've got a lot of heat on our backs. Are you sure?"

"You've got a better plan?"

Natasha mulled it over for a minute. Her green eyes stared straight ahead, giving nothing away. "No," she answered finally. "We'll go with your plan."

Steve drove in silence for another few minutes before curiosity got the better of him. "Everything okay?"

"You and I almost died, everyone we know is trying to kill us and S.H.I.E.L.D. is Hydra," she deadpanned. "I'm peachy."

"No, I meant with the, uh…" He gestured vaguely to her phone, which lit up with another text message. He caught the signature '—SH', but not much else.

Natasha made quick work of another reply. "Yeah, fine," she answered guardedly, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why?"

"Nothing," he said innocently.

"And you're still a terrible liar."

Steve's smile was sheepish. He shrugged one of his shoulders and cast a sideways glance at her. "Just curious," he admitted. "You were smiling."

"Is it strange to see me smile?"

"Not really," he conceded. "Just… not at your phone. Not like that."

"Aren't you observant all of a sudden," she teased.

Steve shot her a _look_. "I _am_ observant."

"And what is it you think you saw?"

He heaved a sigh. He'd been trying for two years to get to know her, but Natasha never made it easy. She was always so guarded and so good at passing off one emotion for another. He never really knew when she was telling the truth. Seeing her smile at her phone in that split second, he thought that might've been real.

He'd never know.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Never mind."

Natasha was quiet a long moment. "You want me to be a friend now?"

"I always want you to be a friend." Steve turned his head to meet her eyes.

She deliberated for almost a minute. "His name is Sherlock Holmes."

He'd heard the name in passing. "The detective?"

"Consulting detective," she corrected. "And yes."

Steve kept his face neutral. He was afraid he'd scare her off if he smiled or even blinked. "So is he your… boyfriend?"

Natasha rolled her eyes deliberately and dramatically, but her answer still rung with honesty. "He's just mine," she said, just barely smiling again. "And… he wanted to know if I was okay. I was supposed to check in. Satisfied?"

He nodded once. "Satisfied." When he eyed her again her cheeks were pink beneath the dirt and ash coating her skin. He didn't know whether she was feeling embarrassed or vulnerable or both.

 _'Still don't know a bloody thing about women'_ , he heard Peggy's voice in his head.

But he knew a little bit about Natasha.

He cleared his throat. "Hey," he called, and she faced him with a cocked brow. He nudged her legs. "Feet off the dash."


	7. Warmth of You

**Warmth of You**

Natasha crawled into bed at four on a frosty December morning with bruises on her body and blood on her cheek. She was bone tired and aching, but Sherlock's bed was warm and his scent was home.

She yanked her boots off and slipped beneath the covers, tugging on his shirt from behind. Her eyes were already heavy and half closed. Her fingers numb from the cold.

"Thought you were working a case," she murmured against the pillow.

"I was…" Sherlock turned, dragging her into his arms and against his chest. His button down was half undone and crumpled, and Natasha pressed cold, lazy kisses against his skin. "It was the uncle. Crashed after I finished," he added drowsily. "Punched him in the face before Lestrade took him away."

"How many times?"

"Not nearly enough." He kissed her forehead and breathed her in. She could feel the faintest shiver worming its way through his body and still pulled him closer. "Thought _you_ were working," he continued.

"Finished," she echoed quietly. She didn't need to tell him about the beating she'd taken while extracting information. He already knew from the way her body moved and folded against his, wordlessly seeking safety and comfort. "Need to see John tomorrow."

Sherlock buried his fingers in her hair, banishing the cold clinging to her skin and bones. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she breathed, sliding a hand underneath his shirt. "Yeah, I am now…you?"

"Mm," he hummed in confirmation.

They had a system for the rough days. They had ways of coping with the stress and the tension and the grittier parts of what they did.

'Coming in from the cold' wasn't just a figure of speech. It was a way of life. It was coming home to shelter and safety. It was wrapping themselves up in each other when the world turned frigid in the midst of a completed mission or a solved case.

When the World's Only Consulting Detective and the Black Widow were done saving the world, they shed their skin and together embraced their humanity bit by broken bit. They touched softly and held tenderly and slowly kissed the chilly darkness away.

Beneath the thick covers of their bed, with their work still clinging to them in heavy chunks of ice, they filled each other up with warmth and chased away the cold.


	8. PS I'll Miss You

**Author's Note:** Another short Victorian AU inspired by _The Abominable Bride._

* * *

 **P.S. I'll Miss You**

"You're leaving."

"Only for a few hours. I'll be back before you've had a chance to miss me."

Sherlock lifted the bow off the strings of the violin. "Who says I'll miss you?"

"You and that sad melody you were about to play," Natasha retorted with the barest hint of a smile as she turned away from the view of the bustling street below. "You don't have a case?"

"No, nothing." Sherlock deposited the violin in his chair to pace the room. "No murders or burglaries. I fear the end of the criminal mind as we know it, and the death of my own with it," he added with a dramatic sweep of his dressing gown.

Natasha slid off her perch with feline grace. "Come with me, then."

He paused in his pacing to study her. "Work?"

"Of a sort. I've been asked to retrieve an item of _extremely_ high value from the British Museum of Art." She breezed past him towards the bedroom to get ready, throwing her next words over her shoulder. "I could use a partner."

Sherlock was close on her heels. "A favor?"

"A debt I owe," she confirmed.

He removed his dressing gown and hung it behind the door. "My brother will have your head."

"I know." Natasha slipped out the shirt she'd borrowed from him the night before and flashed him a radiant smile as he turned towards her. "It'll be fun."

Sherlock's blue-eyed gaze raked over her bare skin, lips lifting at the corner ever so slightly. "I think I'd very much like to keep you, _Natalia._ "

"You have me…" Natasha retrieved a dress from her travel trunk and closed the distance to kiss his lips. Standing on tiptoe as he pressed her closer still with a large hand on the warm skin of her lower back. " _I'm yours._ "


	9. A Song After Midnight

**A Song After Midnight**

The first time Natasha Romanoff celebrated New Year's Eve, it was with a dead man.

A dead man only in name, at least. Sherlock Holmes was very much alive, tucked into a safe house far away from the hustle and bustle of Moscow's New Years Eve celebrations.

They'd met several years before, when Natasha had still been an agent for the Russian KGB and Sherlock still hadn't undertaken the title of world's only consulting detective. They'd been dark times for both of them. And in that darkness, they'd found a kindred soul in each other.

She slipped in through the window and into his safe house on silent feet, carrying only a hard case and an overnight bag. She closed the window behind her to keep the chill outside, only then risking a glance at the bed in the middle of the darkened room.

Sherlock was still fast asleep. Shirtless beneath the covers and in need of a shave, but his curls had been freshly cut. His eyes were pinched closed, lips just slightly parted. He looked so much younger than he did awake.

Natasha removed her boots, coat, and scarf without making a sound, leaving the overnight bag but still carrying the hard case with her. She set it down on the floor beside the bed and very carefully crawled in next to him. He smelled like soap and _him_ and she breathed in his scent, tucking herself against his side.

"Hey stranger," she whispered into the silence.

Sherlock didn't startle or snap his eyes open, only breathed in and pulled her close. "I'm dreaming," he stated more than asked.

Natasha had to bite back a smile. "No, you're not, and I come bearing gifts," she whispered again.

Sherlock turned to face her, pulling her closer still underneath the bed covers and half opening his eyes. His lips curled in a drowsy smile. "Is it Christmas already?"

"New Year's eve, actually." Natasha smoothed her hand down his chest and met his eyes. "It's almost midnight, too. It took me longer to find you than I would've liked."

"Mm, well, you're lucky to have found me at all." Sherlock drew the covers down just enough that she could see the bruises left on his chest and ribs.

Natasha's smile faded. "Well if I'd known that, I'd have brought you their dead bodies instead," she said seriously.

Sherlock huffed a tired laugh. "What _did_ you get me, then?"

She met his eyes one more time, then reluctantly rolled away from the heat of him to retrieve the hard case from the floor where she'd left it. "I know you miss the city. And John, and Molly, and everyone," she explained, sitting up a bit to set the case down on the bed. Sherlock sat up too, sharp blue eyes darting between her and the case. She nudged it towards him. "I thought it'd be nice for you to at least have your violin. I can take care of it if you have to leave it behind after tonight but I thought maybe just for a little while..."

Natasha watched Sherlock for a reaction. For a long time, he just stared at her, that intense blue stare that made her heart stop and her breath catch. He finally tore his eyes away to reach for the case, long fingers reverently running over the surface before he popped it open. "You brought me my violin," he repeated.

"Yeah," she said, a little uncertainly. "Is that okay? I figured it wouldn't be a problem, as far as being recognized—" Sherlock's lips were on hers before she had a chance to finish, hot and soft and tasting faintly like mint. She wasn't sure when he pushed her back on the mattress or when he shoved the case out of the way, but suddenly he was on top of her and she couldn't see or breathe or think past the feel and taste of him. Outside the window, way out in the distance, a clock chimed twelve and there were sounds of cheering and celebration.

Natasha was too buzzed and dizzy to care by time Sherlock pulled away. "You like it, then," she quipped, following it with a husky, breathless laugh.

"I like it," he panted back. He rose off of her to retrieve the violin from inside the case along with the bow. Natasha resisted the urge to yank him back, instead propping herself up on her elbows to watch him.

She smiled when their eyes met, a smile that was all softness and warmth, just for him. "Play something for me."

Sherlock winked, shifting on the bed to a more comfortable position. "As you wish, princess."

Hours later, after Sherlock had put away his violin, and after they'd slipped beneath the covers in a tangle of needy kisses and eager hands and danced their way into the new year, Sherlock pulled Natasha to his chest and buried his face in her messy red hair.

" _Happy New Year, Natalia_ ," he breathed in perfect Russian.

Natasha broke out in a smile he couldn't see. " _Happy New Year, my Sherlock Holmes_."


	10. Vows

**Vows**

Sherlock knew she would come. Natasha always came when he needed her to, whether or not he said so in as many words. She was perceptive like that. And fiercely loyal to the few she allowed herself to love.

It still caught him off guard when he looked up from his laptop to find her standing in his doorway, holding a bag and not much else. His thoughts had been elsewhere.

She set the bag next to the door.

Sherlock spared a last glance for Mary's face, still and unmoving on the screen of his laptop. He closed it without saying a word.

"Mrs. Hudson said she'd be right up with a tea tray." Natasha crossed over to kneel in front of him, hands on his knees, eyes on his face. Concerned, sad, determined. Sherlock leaned forward in his chair until their foreheads were touching and took her by the shoulders. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, not saying a word, simply taking in her familiar scent. Wolfish behavior they were both prone to. "I told her it wasn't necessary," she added in a quieter voice, smoothing her hands over his knees. "What can I do? Where's Rosie?"

"With Molly," Sherlock answered after a beat. Molly hadn't abandoned him either. She never would, but Rosie was priority. He knew that. "She'll be taking turns with Mrs. Hudson the next few days."

Natasha gave his knees a gentle squeeze, their faces still intimately close. "And John—"

"Grieving," he said quietly. "He doesn't want to talk, I don't know what to do." He could hear the tremor in his own voice on the last syllable. Could hear the guilt tainting his words. His fingers flexed around her shoulders as if making sure she was still there. As if making sure he wasn't alone. He still hadn't answered her first question and he wasn't sure he could now without unraveling. He could still hear Mary's voice in his head. _Save John Watson._

Natasha didn't need him to say anything else. She never did. Before he could register she was moving, she'd nudged him back into his chair and settled on his lap, pulling him into her arms without hesitation. Sherlock's reaction was instinctive, well-practiced, and familiar. He wrapped his arms around her like a vice, buried his face in her soft red hair. Held her like he was drowning and she was a life raft. She was lethal and dangerous, but this softness of hers, this warmth, that was all his. Unconditionally, no questions asked.

She tightened her grip on him, turned her head just enough to whisper against his hair. "What happened isn't your fault," she said. "I've got you. Always, I've got you."

"I need to keep them safe." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper. "John and Rosie—I made a vow."

"And I'll have your back then too," she promised. "I made a vow too, remember? To you, a long time ago."

Sherlock didn't talk about about Mary. Didn't open up to spill his insides because it wasn't his style. But he did give in. To Natasha, to his grief, to the pain of losing.

The game wasn't over. The case had only just begun. He would save John Watson if it was the last thing he did, but for one afternoon, he let himself grieve the loss of Mary Watson the way it was meant to be grieved. Like a broken heart. Like the loss of a best friend. Like the emptiness left behind by one of the few people who saw him and accepted him for who and what he was.

Natasha's arms were safe haven. He could lay the pieces of his broken heart bare.


	11. If I Lose Myself

**If I Lose Myself**

It wasn't the first time Sherlock Holmes found himself with a knife to his throat.

It also wasn't the first time he was attacked in a doss house.

There was usually a request for his wallet, a threat to cut his throat open if he didn't comply. He didn't carry any valuables for these particular types of outings, so the whole thing was usually over quickly, quietly. Without much more than a grumble and perhaps a bloody nick on his skin.

That wasn't the case this time. There'd been no footsteps to alert him to another's presence, no rustle of fabric, no breathing, not a sound until he felt the cool bite of metal against his skin.

The softest female purr against his ear. "Don't move."

The deductions were instinctive. His ever-racing mind speeding to save his life from a lethal threat. The accent was Russian. Maybe. And she was wet. More than wet, she was dripping. Likely from the rain still pattering against the boarded windows, it'd been going on for a while. There was no wind, but she hadn't bothered with an umbrella. _Why?_

He swallowed hard, pinched his eyes close, pushed through the fog. _Think, think, think._ This assault on his life was deliberate, planned. Whoever this person was had to be highly skilled to have tracked him down, to catch him off-guard, to avoid Mycroft's security the way he'd avoided Mycroft's security to get here. Someone clever, trained, possibly Russian. Why would she let herself be caught in the rain? _Think, think, think._

"Unexpectedly sentimental," he breathed, barely above a whisper. He didn't expect her to reply. He half expected her to slice his throat right then and there, perhaps muffle his dying breath with a hand over his mouth.

She pulled away from his ear, in the same motion pushing him back on the dirty mattress he'd flopped on hours before. Was it hours? _Days?_ He'd lost track of time when he'd pushed the needle in his vein.

She swept her eyes over him without taking the knife from his throat. "What did you say to me?"

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Unexpectedly sentimental, letting yourself be caught in the rain," he repeated, still that same quiet voice. He could see her a little more clearly now, but his vision was mostly consumed by green eyes and red hair, dripping on his chest.

Sherlock considered he might still be high. Surely he'd be dead by now if any of this was real. She was clearly here to kill him. He was unarmed, vulnerable, _weak._ He couldn't make sense of this woman not killing him other than her being some sort of hallucination. A fever dream. He didn't usually indulge those unless it was with a specific purpose, but perhaps there was a purpose to this one. Company, contact, _connection_.

Only he would dream up a woman to satisfy a human need he suppressed at every turn, and find himself making her a killer. She didn't shy away from his hand when he reached up to touch her cheek. She was warm. Perhaps not as warm as she should've been, but it was cold outside. Although if she was a hallucination, he supposed that didn't matter.

Her voice was flat when she spoke, purposely flat. "What are you doing?"

"Can't tell if you're real." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. Her skin felt so real, so soft.

She removed the knife from his throat without warning, hesitated as she tipped it away. "You're high."

"Shouldn't matter if you're here to kill me," he whispered. "Shouldn't matter at all, if you're not real. And I'm having the hardest time proving you that are with the given data. I should be dead by now."

She stared at him in silence. As if debating whether or not she would, in fact, kill him, or continue to let him touch her cheek. She seemed to be favoring the latter with every passing second.

Seconds ticked by, and she sat next to him on the mattress, still without saying a word. Light from an outside lamppost, filtering through the boards, cast a little more light on her features. Her nose and cheeks were pink, her lips full, her lashes long. Drenched red hair stuck to her neck and clothes.

"You're beautiful," he said to his hallucination.

He didn't see why he should restrain himself if it was his dream. There was no harm in this. There was no danger of distraction, no danger of succumbing to sentiment. He'd come down from his high hours later and she'd disappear in a cloud of smoke. Another ghost.

She tucked her knife back under her trench coat and checked her watch. _Anxious?_ No, _calculating_. She was difficult to read, but perhaps that was to be expected. He'd want a challenge. Even if it was an imaginary challenge.

She lowered her wrist, unexpectedly moving closer to stretch herself out on the mattress beside him. Close enough to touch, close enough to feel the warmth of her despite the rain and cold, but not quite touching.

She folded an arm pillow her head, brought a hand up to cover his own where it still touched her cheek. Slow and careful, like she'd never done it before, like she was afraid he'd take it away.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched so gently.

"It is your dream," she said.

"Haven't dreamt of someone like you before." He rolled to face her on the mattress, now that it appeared she was here to stay.

"No?" She looked curious now. Perhaps she'd been curious before, but now he could see it as clearly as anything else.

"No," he confirmed, resuming his experimental brushing of her cheek with his thumb. "Usually don't."

She smiled a soft little smile. "Why am I here, then? If not to kill you."

"To keep me company."

She released his hand, reaching out to run her fingertips over his cheekbone, down to his stubbled jaw, and up again to his lips. "You want my company, Sherlock Holmes?"

"It appears I do," he spoke against her fingers.

A mix of confusion, sadness, and fascination passed over her features. "We don't have a lot of time."

He felt his lips turning up at the corner. "Are you going to kill me after all? I don't even know your name."

"Natalia." She held his gaze for a long, silent moment. "And I don't think I can kill you now."

Sherlock leaned into her touch, closing his eyes to savor it. "Stay anyway."

"I will, I am." Natalia's hand drifted from his lips to his chest, just over his heart. Sherlock breathed against her hand, half opening his eyes. "You're mine now, Sherlock Holmes."


	12. PDA

**PDA**

"Pass me my mobile," Sherlock requested.

Natasha lifted her eyes from the screen of her laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. They'd been sitting in silence for the better part of an hour. Sherlock staring into the eyepiece of his microscope, Natasha typing up a mission report due later in the day. There was never any way to know how long the silence would last, but she'd anticipated longer.

When she didn't immediately reply, Sherlock continued with an explanation. "I need to text Lestrade before he leaves the office. No guarantee he'll answer after he does, he tends to ignore me when he's off the clock."

Natasha swept her eyes over the bench. They'd taken up a corner of the St. Bart's lab while John disappeared to make conversation with Mike Stamford. Molly had the day off. There was no one in the room save the two of them.

She lifted a stack of papers out of the way in her search. "Where is it?"

"Pocket," Sherlock answered.

Natasha cocked an amused brow at him. "Can't get it yourself?"

"Busy."

"Articulate," she teased.

Natasha rose from her swivel stool with feline grace, moving closer to check his pockets. She smoothed her hands down Sherlock's back and around his sides, leaning in to whisper playfully in his ear. "Is it here?"

"No, of course not," he said distractedly. "You know where I keep my phone."

Natasha's lips twitched into a smile he wouldn't see. She swept her hands to the very top of his chest, underneath his suit coat but still over his light blue shirt, and inch by slow inch smoothed them down until she reached his lower abdomen. She felt his muscles contract beneath her fingers, felt his breath catch in his chest.

Her lips brushed against his ear. "Here, maybe?"

Sherlock's voice came huskier this time. "Still no."

"Strange…" Natasha pressed herself flush against his back, peeking at the door to check no one was coming. Satisfied they'd remain uninterrupted, she smoothed her hands further down, raking her fingernails across the top of his thighs.

"Probably not here either," she said thoughtfully, gently nudging his legs apart at the knee, "but just to be thorough…"

Sherlock's hands finally dropped from his microscope, and he lifted his head. "John could come back at any moment."

"I'm just looking for your phone." Natasha followed her words with a nip of his earlobe, dragging her hands across the inside of his thighs. Deliberately slow. "You can stop me whenever you like, search for it yourself."

Sherlock's fingers fidgeted on the surface of the bench. "I'm working."

"Are you? Then you really _should_ stop me," she said.

Sherlock drew a subtle, shaky breath, still not entirely looking her way. "Anyone could see us."

Natasha's hands drew perilously close to indecency. "We've been at this for over a year now, never stopped us before."

He stubbornly refused to give in. "Lestrade will leave, and I won't—"

" _You're going to have to stop me, dorogoy, you know how this works_ ," Natasha cut him off in Russian, this time trailing her lips down the slope of his neck. Her hands reached the apex of his thighs, and she cupped him over the expensive fabric of his trousers, felt him shiver in her arms. Her lips brushed against his ear one more time. " _Not here either? Feels promising._ "

" _Nyet,_ " Sherlock breathed out.

Natasha smiled against his skin. "I suppose I'll just have to keep looking."

Sherlock caught her wrist before she could pop open the button on his trousers, finally turning his head to address her over his shoulder. His cheeks were flushed and his bottom lip red, like he'd bitten it hard. " _Pozhaluysta_."

Natasha pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Since you asked so nicely…" She pulled back just enough to slip her hand into his pocket and retrieve his phone. She propped her chin on his shoulder and unlocked the screen, thoroughly innocent now. "What am I texting?"

Sherlock turned his head for another peek through the eyepiece. "Check husband's closet. If blue shirt found, arrest immediately."

Natasha typed out the message and placed the phone on the bench in front of him, just beside the microscope. She dropped another kiss to his neck with the intention to move away.

"I was working too, you know," she said.

Sherlock swiveled in his chair stool to grab her by the waist, catching her before she managed more than a handful of steps. He pulled her to his chest, inches from kissing her lips, and met her eyes, dilated, dark, _intense._

Natasha circled her arms around his neck to bring him closer still, breaking out in a slow smile.

"Minx," Sherlock breathed, trailing large hands from her waist to smooth over the generous curve of her backside. Pressing her closer, he gave her a gentle squeeze over the fabric of her snug-fitting pencil skirt. "My turn now."


	13. Texting

_Busy? —Nat_

The text came towards the end of Rosie's birthday party, while John and Mary were busy cleaning cake frosting from the dining table and confetti from the carpet. There were party hats and streamers cluttered beneath the couch, and John went around the room with a black plastic bag to gather them.

He kept shooting pointed glances in Sherlock's direction. "We'd leave sooner if you helped," he said, nudging a box of garbage bags his way none too subtly.

Sherlock ignored him, standing casually by the stairs while he typed out the last of an e-mail, and addressed Natasha's text. She'd wanted to come. She'd bought Rosie a gift and everything, but Mycroft had called with something urgent and last minute, and she'd climbed into a plane an hour before sunrise.

She'd kissed him soundly at the door before she left, promised to check in once she was settled into a hotel room, and disappeared into the early morning fog. Sherlock brought up her text and typed out a reply.

 _Not yet. John's taking forever to clean. —SH_

 _I'm surprised Mary isn't making you help. —Nat_

 _She tried. —SH_

 _She usually succeeds. —Nat_

 _I didn't say she tried hard. —SH_

 _You're incorrigible. —Nat_

 _I have it on good authority you find that endearing about me. —SH_

 _That I do. —Nat_

 _I win. Do I get a prize? —SH_

Sherlock pressed send and Mary nudged him out of the way to get to a sticky pool of strawberry ice cream on the floor by the stairs, Rosie's favorite. She was strawberry everything these days, and so Natasha had found a scented Strawberry Shortcake doll, wrapped it in strawberry printed paper, and sent it along with Sherlock.

"Tell her the gift was lovely," Mary said, never once glancing at the screen of Sherlock's phone. He cast a sideways glance at her, but Mary just smirked, because she knew, the way she always knew. "I've saved her a slice of cake when she comes back, John and I expect you both for dinner."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, returning his eyes to the screen of his phone when it buzzed in his hand. Natasha's reply, not words this time, but a picture. He stepped out of Mary's way, stole a surreptitious glance at John, and only then tapped to open it. Natasha sending him pictures wasn't unusual, but they were always decidedly inappropriate, to varying degrees.

This one was tame by her standards. She must've been in her hotel room, but there was little in the background that gave her location away. Natasha in a black bra, mussed red hair, full parted lips, and smoldering green eyes was the focus. Sherlock felt himself smile, lips quirking up at the corner, dimples forming on his cheeks.

He missed her already. _I'd prefer you_ , he typed out.

 _You'll have me_ , she typed back. _Wherever and however you want me, as soon as I get back._

 _Tease. —SH_

 _I have it on good authority you find that endearing about me. —Nat_

Sherlock scrolled up, tapped on the picture, and eyed it again. _Endearing is not the word I'd use. —SH_

 _What word would you use? —Nat_

 _Hot. —SH_

Sherlock didn't need to be there to know Natasha had smiled on the other end of the conversation, bit her lip, and tucked her phone to her chest. She always did that when he'd texted something she found sweet or funny or adorable, often while they were having text conversations in the same room. Which was common, particularly when they were forced to socialize with others, or forced to attend a meeting or briefing or whatever nonsense, at Mycroft's request. She usually peeked at him, winked, and typed something back a second later.

The same was true now.

 _I miss you. —Nat_

 _I miss you too. —SH_

There was the sound of plastic garbage bags being shoved into a bin, a kiss from John to Mary, a promise to be back in one piece, and then John was sidling up beside him. He darted his eyes between Sherlock's phone and face as he put on his Haversack coat, half smiling and curious.

"Everything alright? You ready to go?"

 _I'll be home in a week_ , Natasha texted back.

Sherlock typed his reply before he tucked his phone in his pocket, still smiling that same smile from before as he reached for his Belstaff. He caught John's eye and smiled a little wider, the smile of anticipation so common when he was on the brink of delving into a challenging case.

"I'm always ready," he said.

He popped his collar, pressed a kiss to the top of a sleeping Rosie's head, and glided to the door with a dramatic flourish. Somewhere in the world, Natasha smiled at the screen of her phone and tucked it to her chest. Sherlock's words flashed on the screen.

 _I can't wait. —SH_


End file.
